There are many peculiarities to the year 2049. The inexplicable and discernibly painful generational experience of decade-old children is, by no means, the least peculiar.

On their tenth birthday, thousands of children awaken to a blinding headache instead of their families’ song, then spend their special day in fluid-resistant hospital sheets instead of tearing down the ARcade.

Doctors have found themselves at a loss. The one lifeline – a thin, polymer film of lifelines, actually, covered with strands of gold nanorods – yet unexhausted lies in your modest lab of implantable microbots and frequent little explosions.

Enter the hospital